[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain Read Free Page B

days back, ’tis a good axe, that’un. . . . ”
    He was about to expand on the subject of axes when he spotted the Dibbuns marching off in a determined manner. “Whoa there, liddle mates! Where are ye bound?”
    Grumby the hogbabe pointed toward the main gate. “Ho, us is goin’ to ’elp Miz Tirrier to choppa wood. Don’t not worry, Skip, we keep a h’eye on ’em for youse!”
    Brink gathered the little ones up and placed them in the big wheelbarrow amid the windfall fruits. “Yore far too young t’be rovin’ about woodlands. I’ll take ye up t’the kitchens an’ tell Friar Bibble to feed ye all well for yore hard work. Will ye lend a paw ’ere, Skip?”
    Banjon took one of the barrow handles. “I certainly will, matey. Friar Bibble might feed me, too. A liddle bird told me that he’s bakin’ sugarplum pudden today.”
    The Dibbuns roared with delight. “Sugarplum pudden! Whooooraaaayyy!”
    Brink turned his eyes skyward, murmuring to Skipper, “I’opes to goodness he is, ’cos if’n he ain’t, we’ll ’ave to run for our lives from those liddle ’uns!”

2

    In the woodlands south of Redwall Abbey, other young creatures were abroad that day: a small gang of water rats, eight in all, headed by one Groffgut. Leaving the larger vermin bands, they had wandered up country, seeking any opportunity to plunder, kill or cause terror. This was done in the hope of establishing themselves as a feared vermin band. Thus far they had made patchy progress, but Groffgut’s confidence was growing daily.
    Warm noontide sun slanted through the trees onto a quiet streambank. Some of the rats lay about by the shallows, fishing the limpid waters, whilst others foraged for nests with eggs in them. Groffgut disdained such menial tasks, letting the others do all the chores. By virtue of his size, strength and quick temper, he was the chief. Stretched flat out, he gazed over the bump of his paunchy gut, idly watching the blue-grey campfire smoke blending amid sun shafts.
    One of his minions, Hangpaw, limped up from the shallows, displaying a small perch dangling from a line. “Yeherr, Chief, lookit, I gorra fish!”
    Groffgut was not impressed. “Yarr, s’only a likkle ’un. Stick it onna fire, an’ go an’ catcher some big ’uns.”
    An excited whoop rang out from farther up the bank. “Yaggoo! Cumm an’ see dis, mates, I gorra h’eagle!”
    Groffgut heaved his bulk up irately. “Wot’s dat Frogeye shoutin’ about now?”
    Plugtail, another of the gang, came scurrying up. “Chief, Chief, Frogeye’s catchered a h’eagle!”
    Groffgut shoved him to one side. The rest followed him as he went to investigate, grumbling all the way. “Huh, shupid! Rats don’t catcher h’eagles, don’t dat ijjit know? It’s h’eagles wot catchers rats!”
    None of the gang had ever seen an eagle before, but there was no doubt that Frogeye had captured a big, fierce bird. It looked a lot like they imagined an eagle should look. Frogeye’s lazy eye, the one that normally remained lidded over, was blinking up and down, exposing the milky-hued pupil, as the rat danced around, prodding and tripping his find with a crude, homemade spear. The wounded and exhausted bird stumbled forward, desperately trying to get at the lifesustaining streamwater.
    Frogeye slammed his spearbutt into its body, toppling it backward, tail over crest. He laughed callously. “Yeeheehee! See, I told ya, didden’t I? I catched a real live h’eagle all by meself!”
    Groffgut drew his sword, which was in reality a broken scythe blade with a rope handle. Approaching the big bird, he stood on one of its half-spread wings, pinning the other with his blade as he inspected it. Had the bird not been injured or fatigued, any rat would have rushed for